


Volta

by EAU1636



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Endeavour Morse Whump, Episode Related, Episode: s03e04 Coda, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636
Summary: Alternate ending to Coda.  Morse is shot and Joan realizes her feelings for him.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday
Comments: 39
Kudos: 100





	1. Sine Nomine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dal Segno al Coda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714684) by [Drusilla_951](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drusilla_951/pseuds/Drusilla_951). 



> This is my first ever fanfic so I'm still getting the hang of things. Disregarding everything I know about these characters and pretending they can be happy.
> 
> I sort of half assed the beginning part here. Drusilla_951's Dal Segno al Coda story already did a great job of retelling the earlier parts of the heist from Joan's point of view, so I didn't bother rehashing it here. Also I was just ready to be done :)
> 
> I had to change the layout of the bank to fit with the story line I wanted. And I had to keep Fordyce around because I needed an extra set of hands.

The gunmen began to herd the hostages out of the bank. Just as Joan reached the door, Morse and Mr. Fordyce behind her, Cole reached out an arm to stop them.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he barked at them. “Not you three, through here.”

The dark haired gunman led them across the bank and downstairs to the basement, Cole’s gun at their backs.

He walked them over toward a hole that had been broken through the wall. They climbed through, Joan’s legs almost giving way beneath her until Morse helped lift her. She was so tired, so completely drained that she could barely walk. Mr. Fordyce followed meekly along behind them.

Morse argued with Cole to let them go, to let her go, but to no avail. Joan was beginning to understand there would be no easy way out of this for them. The knowledge turned her stomach. She reminded herself that her father was out there, somewhere, and that he would be coming for her.

Morse gave her Clissold’s pad as they were hurried along the corridor. When he realized it was empty he gave her instructions on what to tell her father if anything happened to him. She tried hard to take in what he was saying, but the thought of something happening to him filled her with a hollow dread.

They had reached a locked door. Cole told the other gunman to blow the lock off. A deafening boom shook the room. Morse pulled her to him, covering her head with his hands. She breathed him in, wrapping her arms around him.

They made their way through the door into another room. An old storage area of some sort, filled with dust, the air stale and musty. One dim bulb buzzed above their heads, the rest of the room was in shadow.

“There’s got to be a bloody way out down here!” Cole’s voice was growing frustrated. “Go back and get that fire ax,” he said to the other gunman, “We’ll have to bust through this wall to get out.”

Morse kept his hand on Joan’s shoulder. She was so glad he was with her. She felt safe with him, and always had. Without him she would be terrified, but with him here she somehow felt things must turn out alright.

The dark haired gunman brought the ax and had Morse begin hacking at the wall. Joan sat on the dusty floor, arms crossed, wondering if anyone knew where they were. Wondering what the gunmen would do with them once they were out of the bank. Mr. Fordyce stood against the wall, his eyes on the ground.

The minutes passed slowly, the gunmen’s panic increasing. They were wild eyed now, animals caught in a trap.

“It’s no use!” Cole shouted. “We’ll never get out of here this way.”

“What do we do?” The other gunman’s voice was full of fear.

“You’re only making things worse, you won’t get away with it,” Morse said in a wearied voice.

“Shut up!” Cole shouted, pointing his gun at Morse.

“There is no way out, turn yourselves in, it’ll be the grave for you, not prison, if you keep on like this,” Morse continued.

A gunshot fired. The sound was deafening in the echoing basement. For a moment Joan could not understand what had happened. Then she saw Morse fall to the ground. She ran to him, screaming his name, and dropped to her knees.

He lay on his back, dazed. A red splotch was spreading out from the right side of his stomach.

“It’s ok, Morse,” Joan heard herself say, “You’re ok.”

She put her hands against the wound on his abdomen and he cried out in pain. In seconds her hands were covered in blood. She strangled a scream in her throat. She felt she might be sick. The room spun.

She looked up at his face and saw the hurt and panic in his eyes. She made herself take a breath. She needed to get control of herself, she needed to be strong for him.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the two gunmen huddled together, unfazed, debating their next move. She was no longer afraid for herself, her mind was trained on one single thought. _Morse_.

“Come here, Mr. Fordyce,” she tried to keep her voice measured. “Take off your jacket. When I move my hands you’re going to press your jacket right here. Keep firm pressure on it.”

Silently he did as she instructed. Morse let out an agonized moan as Fordyce pressed down on the open wound.

She took her blood soaked hands from his side and moved to kneel nearer to his face. “It’s ok. I’m right here,” she tried to sound calm, “You’re going to be ok.”

She would not let him see her panic. She met his eyes and hoped her face would not betray her. Pain was etched across his features. She could see him fighting to reign in his terror, trying to be strong, even with his blood pooling beneath him on the dusty floor.

She did her best to wipe the blood from her hands onto her dress as she knelt beside Morse’s chest. She put a hand against his cheek. “It’s ok. I’m right here.” With her other hand she grabbed hold of his and felt his fingers cling to hers.

His whole body was shaking. His breath came in quick gasps. His eyes darted toward his wound and widened. She had to keep him calm.

She thought of the first time she’d opened the door to him and remembered how confident she’d felt giving that handsome, hesitant boy an order to come inside. She tried to make her voice sound that way now. She put her face close to his. “Look at me, Morse,” she looked into the blue eyes that had never once failed to make her heart leap. “You just keep looking at me. You’re going to be ok. Help will be here soon. Stay with me.”

She cradled his head in her hand and felt his hair between her fingers. She thought of how she’d selfishly been glad he was at the bank during the robbery. Now she would give anything to have him anywhere else, to know he was safe.

 _Oh God_ she thought _I can’t lose him_.

“You just stay here with me, ok?” her voice broke, but she forced herself not to cry. “I’m going to stay with you and you’re going to stay with me. That’s all you have to do. We’re just going to stay here together until help comes.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in a voice so choked with regret it was almost a sob, “Never did know when to keep my mouth shut.” He tried to smile, but a tear slipping down his cheek belied the boyish grin. “You’ll be out of here soon. You’re going to be alright,” he said.

“We’re both going to be alright,” her voice was a command, “We’re staying together, remember?” He would not leave her, not like this. She wouldn't let him.

“The cavalry will be here soon,” she tried to assure herself as much as him. “God knows the state dad will be in when he sees you. You’ll be glad to have a few days in the hospital and away from his lectures.”

Joan caught Mr. Fordyce’s eye and the pity in his expression made her want to slap him. She saw the gunmen pacing, their voices growing angry with frantic indecision.

Morse’s breathing was ragged and his lips had grown pale. She could see him fighting to keep his eyes open. She felt his grip on her hand weakening, his hand growing cold.

Terror rose in her like a wave. She thought of Ronnie’s body upstairs and how he’d looked just before he died. How much longer did Morse have? She had to keep talking, had to keep him focused on her. She moved to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt collar. She wanted so badly to hold him in her arms.

“They’re coming, Morse. Stay with me. You’ll be on your way to the hospital in just a minute. ” She was fighting so hard not to break down. “I’ll be there waiting for you when you’re all stitched up so you just be sure not to stand me up. You’re needed here, Morse, please...”

His labored breaths cut her like a knife. He swallowed and she could see him struggling to speak.

“Joan,” he whispered with trembling lips, his eyes filled with anguish and full of tears.

One word, but it told her everything.

Her resolve broke. She could not stop the tears. She held onto his gaze and onto his hand, and would to the last, whatever it cost her. She stroked his cheek and smoothed back his sandy hair to kiss his forehead . “I’m right here,” she said. “I’m right here with you.” She did her best to gather him into her arms.

His breath slowed, his eyelids grew heavy. She wanted to scream, to shake him. She knew with awful clarity then that she loved him. Loved him more fiercely than she had ever loved anyone. She thought how little she really knew him, and how desperately she wanted to know every single thing about him.

The man she loved was going to die here, in her arms. And she didn’t even know his first name.

Morse’s eyes closed and his body grew limp.

“Morse?” she was almost screaming, “Morse, wake up! Stay with me, please.” He did not stir, he was so terribly still. She couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.

Never would Joan forget that moment. His tender face streaked with blood from her hands, his lips slightly parted, his beautiful eyes closed. She held him in her arms, but he had gone somewhere she could not reach, could not pull him back from. She wept, barely able to take in breath.

Mr. Fordyce moved to take his hands from Morse’s side to comfort her but she pushed them back down. “Don’t you dare move your hands,” she spit the words at him, “Whatever happens, you keep pressure on that wound.”

And then they heard it, her father’s voice from around the corner, ordering the gunmen to put their weapons down. Cole moved to lunge toward Joan, but a shot rang out and hit him in the shoulder. The other gunman fired back and the sound seemed to explode in Joan’s head. She laid her body over Morse’s and covered the top of his head with her hands, trying to shield him. She would not leave him. Fordyce ducked down and covered his own head with his hands.

Joan couldn’t tell what was happening, who was shooting. All was confusion and noise and dread. She saw Cole fall. Heard the dark haired gunman shouting. More shots rang out.

And then her father was rushing toward her. “Joan,” he said, his voice a mixture of worry and relief, “Are you alright?” She lifted herself up to kneel. He had eyes only for her and reached out for her. Something in her expression made him stop. He looked at the blood on her hands and then at the body lying beside her.

“Morse,” she cried out with anguish, “Dad, please. Help him.”

There was a moment of confusion in his eyes, followed by a growing realization of horror. She stood and moved aside and he knelt beside Morse. Mr. Fordyce stood off to the side, looking stunned.

Jim Strange rushed in and quickly stopped in his tracks.

“Christ!” he said, “Is he?” He looked to her father, who gave only a sharp glance toward the doorway in reply. “I’ll go get the medics,” Jim said quickly.

Her father pressed his fingers against Morse’s neck. Dr. DeBryn came in carrying his medical bag and rushed toward them. Her father moved aside so the doctor could examine Morse.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” she heard her father say, “I couldn’t find a pulse.”

Joan put her hand to her mouth to hold back a cry. They needed to focus on Morse, she had to keep herself together. Her shoulders heaved with sobs.

_He’s going to die. I’m watching him die._

DeBryn rushed to grab his stethoscope and pressed it to Morse’s chest.

DeBryn looked up at her father. “I’m going to begin compressions,” he said, “You give him rescue breaths.” Her father nodded and DeBryn began to pump his hands against Morse’s chest.

There were no words for what Joan felt then. She could not think, could not even pray. She could only watch. The world outside this room, time itself, ceased to exist. There was only Morse’s body sprawled on the cold floor, the insistent thrusting on his still chest, his head tilted back and neck exposed, his mouth that took in breath but did not return it.

“Come on now Morse, breathe,” her father’s gruff voice commanded. “Stay with me, Endeavour.”

 _Endeavour_ , Joan’s mind grabbed hold of the name and clung to the knowledge. _Morse’s name was Endeavour_.

DeBryn stopped to check for a pulse and then told her father to take over compressions. The doctor reached into his bag and pulled out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. He filled the syringe, pushed up Morse’s sleeve and injected the liquid into his arm.

Her dad continued pumping Morse’s chest. “Come on son, I won’t let you do this,” his voice was edged with panic, “Breathe, Endeavour.”

Jim rushed back in, followed by two ambulance medics with a stretcher.

Dr. DeBryn leaned over Morse with his stethoscope and her father moved back to give him room. He listened for a moment and then resumed compressions.

The look on her father’s face told Joan all she needed to know. They were losing him.

DeBryn’s face held an expression of grim determination. He paused compressions and once again listened to Morse's chest.

“I’ve got a pulse!” he said, turning to the medics. “He’s in shock and he’s lost a great deal of blood. We need to get him to the hospital now.”

Joan broke down in sobs as her father rushed toward her and wrapped her in a firm hug.

“He’ll be alright,” he said in a soothing voice, “It’s all over. You’re safe.”

Joan watched as they gingerly loaded Morse onto the stretcher and quickly carried him away.

He was alive, but for how long? Joan felt nausea rising up within her. She ran to the corner of the room and was sick.

Her father patted her back. “You’re ok,” he said in a soothing voice, “It’s all over now.”

But Joan knew that wasn’t true, couldn’t be true until she knew Morse was going to be alright.

Her dad slowly led her upstairs. Outside the bank her mother was waiting and ran over to meet them. Crying, she wrapped Joan in a hug.

Joan was numb. She felt a hollow emptiness. She was trying to compose herself for her parents’ sake, struggling to think clearly. She tried to pull herself from the constant din in her mind, but it would not stop. _Was Morse still alive? Was this the moment he was dying, afraid and in pain? Would she ever see him again?_

Then she remembered the conversation she’d had with Morse about Mr. Clissold’s notepad. This was something she could do for him, at least. She turned to her father and tried to repeat what Morse had told her word for word. Her father squeezed her arm warmly.

“I’ll see it’s all taken care of. Don’t you fret. I can get an officer to drive you and your mother home. We’ll deal with your statement later.”

“I can’t go home,” Joan spoke with feeling, “I have to go to the hospital. I need to be there. I need to know.”

“He’ll be in surgery a long while yet and you’ve been through enough,” her dad’s voice was calm but authoritative. “Dr. DeBryn rode along in the ambulance and I’ll send Jim to wait there once we’ve wrapped things up. Morse won’t be alone. We’ll see he’s looked after. You’ve done your bit. Now you need to rest.”

“I’m going to the hospital,” Joan had never spoken so firmly to her father before, “Whether you drive me or I get there on my own I’m going. I promised him I’d be there. I can’t sit home and wonder. I’m going.”

Her father looked at her and pursed his lips in frustration. “Alright,” he said, “You go home and wash up and have some tea. I’ll set things straight with the Lorimers and Paul Marlock and then I’ll come by and pick you up.”

Joan looked down at the brick red blood caked on her dress and hands and nodded.

She and her mother rode home. The house seemed strangely unreal when they entered. Like an automaton Joan undressed and stepped into the shower. She watched the blood running down from her hands into the drain.

_Was he still bleeding? Still breathing? Was his heart still beating?_

She washed and dressed and combed her hair. And all the while she felt she was not really here, this was not really real.

Joan came downstairs and sat on the couch, tea in front of her on the table and her mother’s arm around her. She had never felt so alone. She sat unseeing and waited for the sound of the front door, with Morse’s life, and her own, hanging in the balance.


	2. Aevum

The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room buzzed above their heads. Joan sat with her father next to her and Jim Strange next to him. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since they’d arrived. An hour? Three? Time had become distorted, it seemed to stretch out unendingly, a fun house mirror facsimile of itself. She was terrified of what the next moment might bring and yet felt she could not bear to wait another second. 

Jim had told them when they’d arrived that it would probably be a few hours until they were updated on Morse’s condition. DeBryn had told him they’d need to stabilize Morse before they could proceed with surgery. No news was good news, he’d said, at least for awhile. They’d sat, mostly in silence, since then. Her dad or Jim would occasionally offer up a platitude meant to comfort her. Morse was as stubborn as they came. He’d never leave a case unclosed. In no time he’d be back to driving them mad. With each she’d given a weak smile in response. 

Her mind was a wheel, racing with the same desperate pleas, sickening what-ifs and remorseful regrets spinning around and around again. Images from the hours before broke through her frenzied thoughts and the terror of all that had happened made her stomach turn. All that she wanted in the world was to be with him. To know.

Her dad was the first to spot the familiar figure walking down the hall toward them and he reached out to clasp her hand tightly. DeBryn had been allowed to stay with Morse and to observe the surgery. Whatever there was to know, he knew. 

The incessant whirl of her thoughts slowed to one. _Oh, please. Please. Please let him be alive. Please._ She felt that her body would not be able to contain the dread and hope fighting within for even another moment. 

Dr. DeBryn stood in front of them, looking exhausted. “He made it through,” he said in his kind, calm voice. “It was touch and go there for a bit, but he’s stable for now. The next 24 hours will tell.” 

He did not tell them that they had lost Morse again on the operating table. His shoulders sagged under the weight of those few tense minutes and he wanted to spare them that burden. 

The relief was like nothing Joan had ever known. She inhaled deeply and felt it was the first breath she’d taken in hours. The tears ran down her cheeks and she made no move to stop them. 

“Thank you,” she said to DeBryn, her voice breaking. 

Her dad put his arm around her and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “What did I say?” he said, “Nine lives, our Morse.” 

She smiled and noted the tears in his own eyes, the relief spreading across his face like a wave.

DeBryn told them that although visitors weren’t normally allowed after hours, and non family members not allowed at all, he’d convinced the hospital staff that Morse would need an officer stationed in his room at all times. Morse didn’t need guarding, but DeBryn had rightly assumed they wouldn’t want to leave him on his own. 

* * *

Her dad had tried to convince her to go home once they’d heard word that Morse had made it out of surgery. He argued that Morse would be unconscious for a long while yet and she needed to rest after all she’d been through. She’d done enough. Her mother would be worried sick if she didn’t come home. Jim volunteered to stay on and sit with Morse through the night. 

But she couldn’t leave. The thought of lying at home in her bed not knowing, not being near him, terrified her. She had promised Morse she would be there when he woke up and she was determined to do just that. 

When it was clear she could not be dissuaded from staying, Jim had gone back to the station and her father had grudgingly agreed she could stay on here with him. A nurse came out to lead them to Morse’s room. 

“If anyone asks, you’re WPC Thursday,” he said under his breath, and she knew he wasn’t angry with her, only frustrated at her refusal to let him protect her from all this. 

They stopped outside the hospital room. “Want me to go in with you?” he asked quietly. 

“I’ll be alright,” she assured him. 

“Alright then, if you’re sure. I’ll be right out here,” he said. “I’ll bring you a sandwich and some tea in a bit. I’ll never hear the end of it from Mum if you don’t eat something soon.” He looked at her sternly, his hand on her shoulder. “Once he wakes up you’re going home to rest even if it means I have to take you there in handcuffs.” 

She grinned and hugged him. She was surprised that he seemed to understand that she would want to keep vigil beside Morse alone, that balancing together on the edge of life and death had formed a bond between the two of them that she could not explain. She wondered for a moment if blood and horror might have bound him to someone once. 

His familiar embrace lasted just a few seconds longer than usual, then he seated himself in a chair in the hallway.

Joan opened the door and stood there a moment, afraid, now that she was finally here, of what she would find. 

She walked toward the bed. She took in Morse’s frail frame beneath the blankets tucked neatly around him, his arms uncovered and at his sides, an IV tube extending from his hand. His fair skin was nearly translucent, the veins in his arms standing out clearly. She realized she’d never seen him out of a suit and dress shirt before. His bare arms seemed so defenseless, like a knight without armor. His face, always boyish, looked pitifully young and vulnerable now. The blood had been wiped away from his face but some remained matted in his curls. His lips were pale, the purple and red bruise on his cheek the only hint of color on his face. He was completely still, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only movement or sound in the room. 

She was almost afraid to touch him, he looked so fragile and was already so broken. Cautiously she reached out her hand and stroked his hair. Her fingers moved gently down the side of his face and lingered a moment on his cheek. Tears stinging her eyes, she leaned over and softly kissed his forehead. 

Everything in her wanted to protect him, to comfort him. But the only thing she could do now was make sure he wasn’t alone. She pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. She wrapped her hand around his. "I'm here," she told him, "I'll be right here when you wake up."

She felt a surge of fear. Would he wake up? He was so terribly still. She sat with his hand in hers, trying to commit his every feature to memory. She watched him breathing, each rise and fall of his chest the only thing keeping her panic at bay.

The hours passed. It was the longest stretch of time she’d ever spent with Morse. Apart from a somewhat disastrous and completely accidental double date, their time together usually consisted of quick exchanges during comings and goings. She thought now about the frisson of excitement she’d felt every time they’d passed in the hall, the magnetic pull she’d felt every time they locked eyes. Why had it taken her this long to realize what she felt for him was so much more than just flirtatious fun? She wondered what it was he felt for her. Just for a moment, when he’d said her name during those awful last minutes at the bank, she’d thought that he might see her as something more than the inspector’s daughter. But what did she know about reading men’s intentions?

It was her fault that Morse was here. Her stupidity had led to this. Ronnie’s blood would be forever on her hands, along with Morse’s wounds. She could not undo what she had done, no matter how much she longed to. What would Morse think of someone so gullible and so culpable in his suffering? He had seen through Paul quickly enough. Daughter of a police inspector indeed. She hated herself for being such an easy target. 

Joan was surprised to find that what she felt more than anything else now was anger, at herself, at Paul, at the gunmen who had shot Morse without a second thought. It tore her apart to see him this way, but the agony she felt witnessing his suffering must be nothing compared to what he felt living it.And she knew it was far from the first time he’d been hurt. Morse didn’t deserve any of the wounds, the pain she’d overheard her father telling her mother about in a hushed voice too many times throughout the years. She had gathered enough clues to know how completely alone he was in the world, how little care he’d been shown throughout his life. She wished she could wrap her arms around him now, but he wasn’t hers to hold. To him she would be the colleague’s daughter who had been foolish enough to leave the door open to this attack. She’d been so blind and so selfish, and now she couldn’t hope to be more than just a friend who had kept her promise to stand by him.

  
  


* * *

A gray light began to filter through the window curtains. Joan looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was nearly 6 in the morning. She thought of the morning before, how she’d gotten ready for work and chatted with her mother over breakfast, the way she’d barely made it into work on time as usual, the pangs of excitement and curiosity she’d felt seeing Morse walk into the bank. Just yesterday, but a lifetime ago now. 

She took in Morse’s pale face in the dim morning light. She moved her thumb lightly across his palm, gently stroking his hand. He inhaled deeply and swallowed. Joan’s heart beat faster, it was the first movement she’d seen him make all night. 

“Morse?” she squeezed his hand. Her voice was unsure, but pleading. “Morse?”

Eyes still shut, he turned his head slightly. She could see he was still only just on the brink of consciousness, but she needed to pull him out of this endless sleep. She had to know. 

“Morse!” she spoke more insistently and moved to sit beside him on the bed, still squeezing his hand.

He shifted once again and then slowly his eyes blinked open. A look of confusion crossed his face, followed quickly by a wince of pain when he tried to move. 

“You’re alright,” Joan touched his shoulder and tried to reassure him, “Just take it slow.”

He looked over and seemed to take in her presence for the first time. He looked so surprised and still seemed so confused. It scared her a little, Morse always seemed to notice everything, she wasn’t used to seeing him so disoriented.

His brow creased. “Miss Thursday?” he whispered hoarsely.

Her eyes filled with tears. She had wondered if she would ever again hear him address her in his ridiculously formal way. It used to drive her mad, his refusing to use her first name, but now she couldn’t imagine hearing anything sweeter.

“You’re ok,” she felt overcome with emotion, but tried to keep her voice steady, “You’re in the hospital. You’re alright but you’ll have to take it easy.”

“How long have I been...” his voice was still unsteady, she could see the effort it was taking him to piece things together.

“Just overnight. Wanted to keep us all on our toes for a bit I expect,” she grinned at him, but knew he must see the tears in her eyes.

She realized how close her body was to his, sitting there on his bed, her hand resting on his arm. But she didn’t want to move away. All those hours of sitting there feeling an ocean between them, she felt an overwhelming desire to be near him.

“Are you alright?” He looked at her with concern. “What happened after I..?.“ His voice trailed away.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “You really gave us a scare.” She swallowed back the tears.

“Awake, I see,” Joan heard her father say behind her and turned to see him in the doorway. She saw the relief in his eyes, though she knew he was trying not to show it.

“Yes, sir,” said Morse. Then a look of alarm came over his face. “You need to get to Paul Marlock, it was he and the Lorimers who conspired to kill Clissold.”

“It’s all sorted,” her father said calmly, “Joan told me what you’d said and we got onto them right away. Well, I’d better let the nurses know you’re awake. They’ll be anxious to get you looked over, I expect.” 

He walked back out into the hallway, leaving Joan and Morse alone again once more.

“You needn’t have stayed here all night.” Morse seemed embarrassed, unsure of what to say. 

“I owed you that much,” a bitter note crept into Joan’s voice. “I should have seen Paul for what he was. Then you wouldn’t be here, this never would have happened.” Her cheeks burned with shame and regret.

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened,” he spoke with feeling, “It wasn’t your fault, any of it.”

“I was so stupid. If you’d...” she met his eyes, tears running down her face. _If you’d died because of my mistake_ she thought but could not bring herself to say aloud. 

She put her hand against his face and ran her finger along his cheek and he reached up to grab hold of her wrist.

“It’s all over now,” he said, looking straight into her eyes.

She half laughed, half sobbed. “I’m meant to be comforting you, not the other way round,” she said.

He was still clasping her arm, the side of his face still resting in her hand. He looked at her with tears in his own eyes. “You did comfort me” he said softly. 

Again she saw those last moments at the bank, again felt him lying in her arms but slipping away. 

“Morse,” she began, then stopped. 

Joan heard footsteps behind her. She turned to see her dad entering the room, along with a doctor and nurse. 

Caught off guard, she pulled her hand from Morse’s face. She stood up and moved aside as the doctor came over to examine him while the nurse tinkered with the IV. Joan’s dad came over and put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. 

“They’ll be prodding and poking him for a bit I expect,” her dad said. “Then he’ll need rest. And you need some rest yourself. Let me take you home now.”

“I’m fine,” she started to argue.

“You should go home, Miss Thursday,” Morse spoke up from the bed. “You’ve done more than enough. Go home and rest.”

She pursed her lips into a tight smile. “Alright,” she agreed reluctantly, “Take care of yourself, Morse.” She looked over at him and felt as though she might cry again, but steeled herself and tried to seem composed. 

“I’ll pop round later and look in on you,” her dad told Morse, who responded with a quick nod and a weak smile. 

And then they were walking down the hall and toward the car park and leaving Morse behind. With every step Joan felt herself unraveling. The anchor of his nearness gone, she felt carried away by a tide of unreality. The danger was past, but the threat of it still pressed against her like a knife at her throat. For so long all of her focus had been on Morse, on being strong for him. Her determination not to leave him had kept her afloat. Now she was sinking, an emptiness filling her, a dull ache in her chest. Could she ever go back to the way things were only yesterday morning? The person she had been felt lost to her, a vague outline that no longer fit. She got into the car and closed her eyes, not wanting to talk. She and her father rode in silence all the way home.


	3. Tenebrae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I go away from you  
> The world beats dead  
> Like a slackened drum.  
> I call out for you against the jutted stars  
> And shout into the ridges of the wind.  
> Streets coming fast,  
> One after the other,  
> Wedge you away from me,  
> And the lamps of the city prick my eyes  
> So that I can no longer see your face.  
> Why should I leave you,  
> To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?  
> -The Taxi, by Amy Lowell

That night Joan lay in her room, tense and restless. All day her mother had fretted over her, making her tea, fixing her meals, treating her much the same way she had when Joan had been a small child home sick from school. It felt suffocating, having all her parents’ concern and attention focused on her, she missed Sam and the way he could always lighten the mood. So much had changed in the span of just a few days. Nothing would ever again be what it had been.

Joan had spent the day weighed down with exhaustion. She had welcomed the tiredness because it was an escape from questions, from diving too deeply into what she felt. Her mother and father could understand being tired. She felt that they could not possibly understand what she felt now, alone in bed. More than that, she did not want them to understand, did not want to burden them with the waking nightmare she was caught in. 

All her life she had tried to do the right thing, had felt safe, but now she knew that the world might fall out from under her at any moment. She could not unsee what she had seen, could not unlearn what she now knew. There was no real safety.

Her mind replayed the awful events of the day before on a relentless loop. She couldn’t stop thinking about every move she’d made, every word she’d said, every mistake she’d made.  _ What if... what if... what if...  _ That phrase over and over again, haunting her. And every time the thoughts led to the unimaginable, the unthinkable.  _ What if Morse had died?  _

She had watched as his heart stopped, and now she felt her own heart might never recover.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw him, terrified and in agony. She felt his lifeless body in her arms, watched again the desperate struggle to bring him back from the brink of death. She knew without question that she loved him, but now her love for him was intertwined with fear and blood and loss. The love she felt for Morse was not a fluttering of excitement, it was an excruciating ache, a constant tug she could not ignore.

She wondered if he was asleep now, at the hospital. Her parents’ love could be stifling, but if it were her in the hospital she would never be alone, would never question that she was loved. She had begged Morse not to leave her, and he hadn’t. Now he lay alone in a hospital bed. She wondered if he felt alone, if he felt afraid, if he was in pain. She wished she could be there to hold his hand, to comfort him, to take comfort in him. But she could probably never be to him what he was to her.

All night she lay awake in the bedroom she’d once felt safe in, terror and heartache hanging about her like a nursery mobile, spinning shadows on the wall until morning.

* * *

The next morning Jim Strange came round to pick up her father. She met him in the hallway as he waited for her dad and he looked at her with sympathetic eyes. 

“Alright, Joanie?” he asked, patting her shoulder affectionately. “You caught a tough break, but things will come out right. Just takes a bit of time.”

She gave a small smile. It was nice to have someone else in the house, to have the normality of her father heading to work in the morning. She knew she would never again head off to work at the bank, she doubted if she could ever bear to step foot in the place again. She was at a loose end, untethered and lost.

“I popped in to see our patient yesterday afternoon,” Jim said with a twinkle in his eye. 

“How is he?” she asked, trying not to let her eagerness show.

“Cheerful as ever,” he replied sarcastically.

Joan laughed. 

“He’ll be right as rain soon. All he needs is a bit of resting up. I filled in the blanks for him about what happened. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But the stubborn sod is always getting himself into scrapes. Thought he ought to know just how close he came to Dr. DeBryn’s table this time, maybe he’ll think twice before rushing headlong into the next one.”

Her dad came into the hall. Her mother handed him a sandwich and gave him a kiss. He turned to Joan. 

“You rest up today,” he said, “I’ll see you tonight.”

Joan nodded to her dad and said goodbye to Jim. The day stretched ahead of her. She already dreaded what the night would bring.

* * *

Joan lay in bed, morning light beginning to fill the room. 

All through the day she’d felt removed from her life, as though she were watching it from a distance, disconnected. But at night she felt too much. At night she was trapped in the reckoning waves of all that had happened, the memories so much more real than her waking life. This slow drowning was too paralyzing for words. She could tell no one, she felt herself pulled down, alone.

She had slept a bit, but fitfully. Throughout the night she’d drift off into a troubled sleep and awake suddenly, unable to tell where nightmare ended and memory began. Each time she awoke her first thought was of Morse. Was he really alright? Was it really over? She longed to lay next to him, to reach out and touch him and know he was safe. Did what lay in the darkness for her come for him in the night as well? She wanted to hold him when the wolves came calling, to feel his body pressed against hers, to be his shield against the lonely terrors of night. 

Her mother knocked on her door, bringing a tray with breakfast. Joan rose to start another day.

Later that afternoon her dad stopped by to have lunch with Joan and her mother. He had been to visit Morse that morning before heading to work and must have known how anxious she was for news. 

“They’re letting Morse go home today,” he said cheerfully. “Be a bit still before he can get back to work, though knowing him we’ll see how long that lasts. I don’t imagine he’s the easiest of patients, they’re probably eager to send him on his way. I’ll send Jim to give him a lift home when he’s released.”

“Are they sure it’s a good idea letting him out so soon?” Joan’s mother asked with concern. “He’ll be all alone in that flat of his with no one to look after him.”

“He’s a grown man, Win, he can look after himself,” her dad answered.

“Can he?” her mother asked pointedly, “Sometimes I wonder.”

Joan sat in silence. What was there to say? She was glad Morse was well enough to go home, she could guess how much he would hate the hospital. But it tore her apart to think of him coming home to an empty flat after all he’d been through. She wished she could be there, arms open, to welcome him home.


	4. Ex Umbra in Solem

She shouldn’t be here. She knew that plainly, but that hadn’t stopped her from quietly slipping out of the house and into a waiting cab, leaving only a note behind. Now Joan stood irresolute, her common sense at war with her need. There was nothing for it, she couldn’t go back home. She couldn't endure another night like the last two. She walked down the steps and knocked on the door.

He opened it hesitantly at first, then a look of surprise crossed his face. Seeing him there, solid and standing and so much the Morse she’d come to know made her heart swell and her breath catch in her throat. 

"Miss Thursday," he said softly, pulling the door open. 

She felt like a fool then, on his doorstep at midnight, with him so clearly taken aback to see her. She pursed her lips together in a weak smile. 

"Come in," he said uncertainly as he stepped aside.

The flat was small and bare. A single lamp was lit next to a chair by the window. A glass of whisky sat on the coffee table, a half empty bottle beside it. Opera music streamed from the record player. At least she hadn't woken him then. 

He wore striped cotton pajama trousers and a white sleeveless vest. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and gave an embarrassed smile as he turned down the music. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting company..." He trailed off and looked at her with the question left unsaid. 

“Dad said they’d let you come home,” she tried to keep her tone light, to hide the relief she’d felt the moment she’d set eyes on him. 

“Be it ever so humble,” he said, looking around self-consciously. “It's late. I’m surprised you're not home in bed."

"You’re right,” she said apologetically. “Too late to be coming round unannounced. I hope I didn't wake you." She looked down at the floor, unable to hold his gaze. "You must need rest with all that's happened. I hope you've been taking good care of yourself." 

She knew he hadn't, hadn't been asleep and hadn't been taking any more care than he ever did, but she felt it needed to be said anyway.

He raised his eyebrows and gave a small sigh as he shrugged his shoulders. "I'm fine." 

How many times throughout the years had he said that? How many times in the past few days had she prayed, begged for it to be true? She still wasn’t sure of it now, his eyes held a haunted look they hadn’t before.

He seemed to realize that they were both still standing just inside the doorway. He took her coat and hung it on the rack beside the door. "Do you want to sit down? Can I get you a drink?"

"A drink would be nice." She followed him into the small kitchen and took in their surroundings as he switched on the light. She noted the empty bottles in the bin and the bare counters. The sink held only a couple of dirty glasses. 

He reached to grab a clean glass from the cupboard and sharply drew in his breath with a wince. She moved toward him but he put his hand up. “Just a bit sore still,” he said hurriedly. “It’s nothing.” 

He set the glass on the counter in front of her. "I'm afraid I don't have much of a selection. Don't often have people round.” He went to grab the whisky and his own glass from the other room.

She'd only dared to give him quick glances so far, afraid of what would be laid bare in her gaze if their eyes met for too long. She stole a look now while he poured her drink and noted the bruise on his cheek had just begun to fade. Her eyes roamed from his face down his neck and over his freckled shoulders. If she let herself, she could stare at him forever, every last inch memorized, kissed, caressed. 

He looked up at her then and she felt the crimson bloom in her cheeks. What was she doing here? What could she say? She forced herself to smile and took a drink. She didn't normally go in much for whisky, and the heat of it traveling down her throat made her head spin. 

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking coming here like this,” she said.

"Why did you come?" he asked.

The question hung in the air between them.

She couldn’t look away. He was close enough to touch. Close enough that she could smell the whisky on his breath. This was what she had come for of course. To see him and quiet the wild panic that overtook her when she was away from him. But now she was here she knew she'd been kidding herself. Of course she wanted more. She ached to touch him, hold him, tell him. She held his gaze and said nothing. Longing thrummed inside her like an electric current.

She took another drink. "I should let you get some sleep,” she said finally. All this time, all that they'd been through and somehow she still couldn't say it.

The corner of his mouth curved up into the half grin she knew so well, but she caught a wounded expression in his eyes. "I think I’ve slept enough the last few days." 

He set his glass down on the counter and stood before her, his face mere inches from hers. They stared at one another in silence for a few moments. Then he swallowed and asked, "Why aren’t you home asleep?" He spoke so quietly, his lips barely moving, his face so still, his steady gaze never leaving her.

"I can’t sleep, not since the bank. I’ve never been so tired. But every time I close my eyes... It’s like I’m back there. I can’t get it out of my head. I just keep seeing it." The words tumbled out. "I keep seeing you..." 

Tears welled in her eyes. She saw it again now, his body crumpling to the floor, her blood soaked hand holding his, the naked fear in his eyes. She felt again the desperate terror that any moment might be his last. The agony of knowing that there was nothing she could do to save him. 

And now here he was, inches from her. 

She reached out her hand to touch his chest. Something within her gave way. She let the tears come. "I was so afraid I'd lose you."

His strong, lean arms wrapped around her and pulled her toward him. She melted into his embrace and rested her head against his chest. For a moment her hand lingered over the bandage on his right side, then she wrapped her arms around him and held tight. 

She felt safe, felt still, for the first time in so long. She felt his warm breath on her neck, heard him whisper, "It's alright. I'm right here." 

She looked up into his beautiful face, the ocean of his eyes, and felt his breath quicken. She put her hand against his cheek and he turned his face to lean into her palm. Her thumb trailed gently across his mouth, resting for a moment on his bottom lip. 

He looked at her then the way she had wanted him to from the moment she’d opened the door that first time. He looked at her as though she were the only puzzle he wanted to solve.

She cupped his face, her world, in her hands. "You mean the world to me, Endeavour.” 

Embarrassed by his name, he looked at the ground. She wondered if he thought she was teasing him, wondered what his name had cost him through the years. 

She gently tilted his head up with her hand and saw hope and disbelief in his eyes. “I love your name because it’s yours,” she said. “I love you.” 

She saw the corner of his mouth pull up, trying to suppress the grin threatening to break out across his face. She couldn’t help but laugh. She pulled him toward her and kissed him, the kiss she’d been imagining for years, with every stolen glance and half smile and gentle tease. She kissed him as though the world was ending, because it so nearly had. 

Never before had she felt this surge of need, this lust that almost made her legs buckle. His lips were soft and warm. She could taste the whisky on his tongue. She kissed him tentatively at first, slowly and gently, scarcely daring to believe this was real. Then his lips met hers with an urgency and hunger that engulfed her. His hands circled her waist, moved to run through her hair, to cradle her face. There was nothing but this, nothing but him, his body pressing into hers, his breath in her ear, his taste in her mouth. 

He held her face in his hands, kissed the side of her neck, moved his lips close to her ear. “Joan,” he whispered, with such unguarded tenderness that she could have cried.

She pressed against him, careful to avoid the wound she knew was still tender. She ran her fingers through his soft hair. Her lips moved fervently down his neck, across his collarbone, along his chest and the ginger hair peeking out the top of his vest . Her hands and lips traveled over his skin, yearning to take in every line and curve and hollow. She wanted to give him everything he’d ever wanted, to make him feel things he’d never even imagined, to make him forget every hurt. 

* * *

In bed later, she watched him sleep, as she had at the hospital. How different it was now, knowing that if she leaned over to kiss him he would wake, knowing exactly how his kisses felt and tasted. There was more her body longed to know, to feel, and the promise of it made her dizzy with desire. She could wait. He would heal, they both would. And then he would be whole and wholly hers. 

For now it was enough to lay beside him and hold him to her, safe. It was enough that he had fallen asleep knowing he was loved. Whatever demons came for them now, they would face them together. She rested her head against his chest and fell asleep to the beating of his heart.


End file.
